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Retrospectively he probably realized he was fucked from the moment he hit Tweet on that first selfie. Because that was stupid. This is all stupid. There’s no reason to try and impress this idiot shitposter with his charming good looks. Unless there is. Which is how Crow knows he’s fucked.

And then again, when Joker posts that accursed bed selfie and damns him to hell. There’s no coming back from this. He closes his eyes and Joker smirks up at him from that bed and he opens them again before his thoughts can take a nosedive for the decidedly unseemly.

It isn’t even his fault, he reasons - with a face like that there’s only so much Goro can do to keep from losing his mind and he’s in bed, which just feels like a needless double assault. Triple assault. Quadruple, if you considered the ridiculous charisma to Joker’s foolish teasing messages and the voice in his ear every other night when they’re on call, rising to babytalk his cat or dropping to laugh at something Goro’s said. He has such a distracting laugh. Low and dark and, Goro decides, illegal. Immoral, in fact. It’s a sin that deserves punishment.

Goro has a few ideas, each more creative than the last.

This is so unbecoming.



He’s well aware this is becoming a fixation. He’s not unintelligent, nor blind - an idiot, certainly, and an infatuated fool, but when the mention of studying brings images of Joker to his mind in decidedly unacademic contexts Goro is hard-pressed to deny the direction his thoughts have started to take.

His imagination always did get away from him. It’s part of what makes him such an effective writer. He doesn’t mind, at the best of times, when it provides a much-needed reprieve from the realities of life; he used to imagine freedom, independence, dreaming up scenarios in which his life was his own. He’d quit his job and scream obscenities at those who’d repulsed him even as he’d smiled; he’d slump in his chair and let his grades slip and make every mistake in the book simply because he could. And he’d find his bastard father and grind him into the dirt.

Goro smiles at the thought.

It’s nothing he could entertain in reality, unfortunately. It would create so much of a mess.

These days his imagination is idler, less pointed. Freer now, to wander as it wishes, it fixates on Joker, much to Goro’s chagrin, and it wastes no time in spinning possibilities he doesn’t know what to do with. Images interrupt him in what he’s doing, whatever he’s doing, flashes of himself pressing Ren into the edge of a desk at a high-ceilinged library (empty) (probably), sweeping nameless textless books aside on the tabletop and curling a hand around the back of Ren’s neck as he presses their mouths together. Or perhaps his own to Ren’s throat.

It would be such satisfaction to see Joker flustered. Goro swears the man never stops talking, always has some sort of ridiculous quip on his tongue that enrages and titillates in equal measure and it’s a source of great disappointment that he can’t steal that smugness from Joker’s lips. Watch his eyes grow wide under Goro’s shadow as he advances on him, grin spreading slow and full of intent, and pushes him down on the table for a hard, bruising kiss before slipping down between his knees and making him sob into the cavernous space.

A week’s worth of class reading sits untouched on Goro’s desk. He’s fucked. He’s so fucked.



Ren asks to use his name and that sends him into a whole new spiral; as if he hadn’t been enough of a disaster fantasizing about how Ren might sound gasping out his online moniker. He likes it too much, the way his alias sounds in Joker’s velvety smooth tone, the way his voice wraps around it, amused and reverent, although Crow’s probably imagining that last part. He imagines so much.

But Ren has to go and ask. Can I call you Goro? And Goro’s not that sort of masochist, but his imagination runs wild again. Runs free of him. It’s the worst idea. Torture, he knows, when Joker has eyes only for his pretty little girlfriend (and it’s so infuriating, that she’s really too lovely to hate) but now Goro imagines his name on Ren’s tongue. His name. Imagines first how Ren might say it, soft and sweet. Then imagines how Ren might moan it, sweeter still, low and affected. Goro, he hears, and closes his eyes. Goro. Don’t stop. Goro, Goro, please -

It would make me happy, says Joker, and Goro thinks of all the different ways he could make Ren happy, and a million other ways to feel.

He thinks of making Joker beg, and the multitudinous possibilities of the things he could make Joker beg for, and the thoughts don’t leave him until much later, gasping into his sheets and hating himself.



The world is collapsing. He’s so used to it by now that he barely looks up as the sky falls.



His waking dreams are relentless, doing battle with his swirling, tumultuous thoughts as life happens and happens more and all he can think of is Joker. He’s caught in a storm, lost at sea, buffeted by the winds and waves and clinging, desperate, to the one thing that doesn’t change.

With every insignificant word Joker says Goro only wants him more, to a point beyond ridiculous, when staring at that stupid locked account makes him feel so tirelessly that he might explode. He’s never been this pent up.

He thinks of Joker pressed up behind him, flush against his back and chuckling low in his ear, leaving him gasping, propped against the wall on shaking arms. Crying out, helpless, rocked along the mattress with Ren’s hands tight on his hips. Ren, pressing lips to his jaw, scraping teeth over the hollow of his throat as he arches his neck up and groans into the heated air. His wrists caught in Ren’s grip as Ren pins him down, pushes him against the bed and keeps him there with his weight against him, whispers dark reassurances and sweet promises against the side of his head as he writhes, lost to it, until his churning thoughts finally dissipate and he knows nothing but Ren’s name -



Goro closes his eyes and lets his arm flop to his side.

He’s much worse off now than when this whole thing started. He’s so fucked.